The Voice of the Rebellion
by Momma Duck
Summary: "I told you we should have rescued the boy first." -President Coin, Mockingjay. What if they did rescue Peeta instead? What would he be thinking, sitting in 13? We know Katniss's story, so what if we switched their roles and told it from his point of view? This is my take on the scenario. (INDEFINITE HIATUS)
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Hunger Games and am making no profit off of this story.

A/N: Hello, guys! So, this the first fanfic I've posted online, though I have written many more in notebooks. I'm proud of this one because I haven't encountered writer's block with it, yet. Maybe that won't happen…. Anyway, this is basically my take on what Peeta would have done if Katniss was taken by the Capitol at the end of Catching Fire. Since I'm trying to keep it true to the plot and feeling of the book, I'll use some direct quotes from Mockingjay. Feel free to comment on what could be improved, but don't hate. Thanks, and see you at the end!

PEETA P.O.V.

PART 1: "THE ASHES"

CHAPTER 1

I stare down at my shoes, watching as a fine layer of ash settles on the worn leather. This is where the front counter of the bakery stood. Over there is the melted lump of the oven. Everything else has vanished in the sea of gray. There are no signs of my family. Only a few of my neighbors got out of the fire alive. Most were caught in the swarms of people trying to escape. There's almost nothing left of the shops and the whole square is desolate, devoid of life. Except for me, who had to see the remains of my district, although I haven't felt alive since I found out that they had gotten to her first. They had taken Katniss.

Pain radiates in my chest as I think of her, as I breathe in the smells of smoke and death. I back away from my home, my whole body going numb. My whole family is dead. And Katniss, who may as well be. Plutarch has reassured me that she probably won't be killed. After all, what better way to crush the districts' morale than to break the spirit of their symbol?

That's what hurts the most. The thought that they won't kill her. I'm haunted by the image of her smoldering gray eyes being rendered dull and broken. They couldn't do that, could they? She is the girl on fire. They can't smother her flames. They won't break her.

I don't know if I believe that though.

I turn on my heel and head towards the Victors' Village, the only place to escape the flames. I avoid the main roads, as those are clogged with the bodies of fleeing people. When I had first landed in the Meadow I wasn't careful about where I stepped, and my prosthetic leg caught in something. It was only when I jerked it free that I realized what it was. Someone's ribcage. I was careful after that, and I avoided the areas that people had passed through to escape.

I'm not a stranger to gore. After all, I had been in the arena twice and killed Brutus with my knife in the past one. But the number of bodies filling District 12 is stupefying. It makes my knees weak and my throat tighten. It makes me hate the Capitol even more for what they have done.

I kick the ash off of my boots like snow as I reach my house in the Victors' Village. It's eerily quiet inside. There's nothing of importance here really, just my paintings of the Games and a few family pictures that I brought over to make the spacious house feel homey. My mother, my brothers, my father. Alive and smiling. I was just little in some of the pictures, and in others my brothers have thrown their weight around my broad shoulders and we're grinning into the camera. I'll miss them.

I tuck the pictures under my arm. I don't bother to look at the paintings before I exit the house and cross the charred grass to Katniss's. I take a deep breath before I turn the knob and enter. The house is tidy and it still smells like cooked meals and strong tinctures, but it is just as eerie as my home. I go through the house picking up things the Everdeens may want. A picture of Katniss's mother and father on their wedding day, the plant book I helped Katniss with, some of Mrs. Everdeen's medicines. In the kitchen I come across Katniss's game bag, and put the stuff inside. My pictures lay on top so I can get them easily when I hand the bag to Katniss's family.

I know they'll appreciate the things. Both of them are devastated by Katniss being taken prisoner. Her mother buries her grief in her work as a nurse, and that leaves Prim alone a lot. I've taken to visiting her and making sure she's okay. We get along well, and she has even come to see the drawings I've done on the spare sheets of paper my doctor managed to supply me with. They're not too loose on supplies in 13 and definitely don't put much into the arts. But my doctor suggested I draw as a sort of therapy. I can at least get my thoughts out.

A hiss snaps me out of my thoughts and I whirl around. Buttercup, Prim's scruffy old tomcat, sits on the window sill. His yellow eyes look wild and regard me with suspicion. He must be terrified from his abandonment. I cross the room and hold a hand out to him. He tentatively sniffs it, then meows and I scratch him behind the ears.

"Wanna see Prim, boy?" I ask, and he perks up. He lets me pick him up and I carry him with me as I go upstairs.

Buttercup squirms as we reach Katniss's room and it is only when I open the door that I know why. The smells hit me hard and I gag. Roses and blood.

President Snow.

There, on the bed where I had tucked Katniss in the night she hurt her ankle, sits a perfect white rose. I hold my breath as I bend to look at it. It is nearly flawless, down to the last thorn and silken petal, except for the tiny flecks of blood spotting it. Tied to the stem with pretty green ribbon is Katniss's pin. The gold is smeared with blood the color of rust. Beside it sits the pearl I gave her, also slick with red.

I feel nauseous. Is it Katniss's blood? Snow has obviously done this to get to me. Only, how long has it been here? I whip around and scan the room, Buttercup clawing at my arms. Are there cameras? Is this house still bugged? Is Snow laughing as he watches from his study? No. The rebels scanned the whole place before I landed. Would they detect a camera or a microphone? Wouldn't the team have thought this little setup was odd?

My neck tingling with paranoia, I pull the Mockingjay pin off the rose and pick up the pearl. I drop both into my pants pocket and get ready to clear out before I remember what I came up here for. I go to the closet and pull out Katniss's hunting jacket. The brown leather is supple and warm, and it smells like her. Greenery and smoke and earth. I hold it to my nose a moment, blocking out the rose smell, then sling it over my shoulder and thunder downstairs. Buttercup thrashes in my arm, but I hold him steady as I shut the front door behind me.

I signal to the hovercraft, ready to get out of here. It materializes and a ladder drops down. I step on and the current freezes Buttercup and I until we're safely inside the craft.

I drop the cat and double over, my hands on my knees, and suck in fresh air. Sweat tickles my brow and I try hard not to give in to the panic that's welling up in me. I'm considering just collapsing on the cool metal floor when Gale and Plutarch appear.

Gale picks up Buttercup and claps me on the shoulder. "You alright?"

I straighten and rub my temples, the panic subsiding a little. "Yeah." I watch him stroke Buttercup a moment, then look at his face. I see my own grief reflected in it. We've both lost the same girl, the same home. We're friendly to each other now. I think it's because we found common ground.

Plutarch smiles a little. "Did it help to see it?"

"I can't say it put me at peace, but it did, I think."

It did give me a new set of nightmares, but I don't say anything else and Plutarch wanders away. I think about Katniss, about the pin and the pearl tucked in my pocket. Is it a message? Telling me she's dead? Maybe it's just Snow's way of reminding me where she is. How powerless I am.

How I can't help her.

A/N: The next chapter is coming shortly, as I've already written it. Any constructive comments welcome. Thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

I pull my pictures out and offer the game bag to Gale. He shakes his head. "You should give it to them."

He sits on the other side of Buttercup, who has curled up in the seat next to me to nap. He leans forward and clasps his hands, sighing.

"How was it?" he asks.

"Gray," I answer. I glance at Plutarch, who is talking to the pilot. When I'm sure he's not listening, I lower my voice. "I found something in her room. It was like Snow had just left it there."

I pull out the pin and Gale raises his eyebrows. He takes it, running a thumb over the dried blood and silky ribbon. "You think the blood is- "

"Hers?" I interrupt him, my voice nearly inaudible. "Maybe. I wouldn't put it past Snow."

Gale's grip tightens on the tainted gold bird. While I feel almost numb, he is angry. He has a fire to rival Katniss's. There's something else there, too. When I look at the tears welling up in his eyes, I realize that he is as broken as the rest of us. He's lost his best friend; someone he loves just as much as I do. He also led the survivors of the bombing into the woods where they watched our district burn. His burden is as heavy as everyone else's.

He wipes furiously at his eyes. "We're getting her back, Peeta. Snow won't get away with any of this. I'll kill him myself if they lay another finger on her." He hands me the pin and gives me a nod.

"It's nice to know I'll have someone to storm the Capitol with." I grin a little.

The ghost of a smile plays on his lips. "We'll get her."

We sit in silence for the rest of the trip. It only takes forty-five minutes to get to District 13 from 12. It's maybe a week's journey on foot. We could have gotten there quickly if Katniss had followed through with her plans to run away. Maybe if we had left, we'd both be safe and leading the rebellion together.

They want me to be the voice of the rebellion. Plutarch explained to me that Katniss was the symbol, and that I could do more damage here in 13 than she could. I would speak, while Katniss would become a martyr in the Capitol. That's why, during that panicked night in the arena, Coin had ordered that I be picked up first. It came down to picking one of us and rescuing the tributes in the vicinity. I was more valuable according to the president of 13. More persuasive, more amicable, more dramatically corrupted by tragedy. The best pick.

I hadn't taken well to this news, of course, and refused to do anything until they got her out. Alma Coin, the president of 13 and head of the rebellion, was irritated by this. I'm apparently not what she expected. Yesterday evening, during one of the propaganda strategy meetings, I got fed up when they started talking about Katniss like she was nothing but a _thing,_ a tool to be used and discarded _._ My opinion was asked on the matter, but I didn't say anything. I just walked out. As the door was closing behind me, I heard Coin say, "I thought he would be more cooperative." She should have thought twice before allowing Katniss to be taken.

Even if we were both captured, I would have preferred that to this.

I look out the window as we reach 13. From the air it looks empty of life, rubble scattered around the inside of the fence that surrounds it. In the seventy-five years since the Dark Days almost all new construction has been beneath the surface. There was already a substantial underground facility here, developed to be a refuge for government leaders in times of war or a last resort for humanity if life above became unlivable. It was also the center of the Capitol's nuclear weapons development program. During the Dark Days, the rebels took control of the weapons, trained the nuclear missiles on the Capitol, and struck a bargain: They would play dead in exchange for being left alone. The Capitol was forced to accept under threat of nuclear war, and destroyed the visible remains of the district and cut off all access from outside, hoping they would die off eventually.

District 13 almost did die a few times, but always managed to pull through due to a strict sharing of resources, strenuous discipline, and constant vigilance against any further attacks from the Capitol. Now the citizens of 13 live almost exclusively underground. Everyone is on a schedule, but I usually ignore mine and spend the day drawing or walking around the hospital wing. I stay in my hospital room mostly, except for meals or going to Command or visiting Prim. No one bothers me about it yet, but I expect they'll eventually enforce the rule. I think they leave me alone because I'm considered unstable. I have a plastic medical bracelet that says so, and so does Johanna.

Johanna is my neighbor in the hospital, and we talk sometimes. She blatantly said she likes me better than Katniss, but didn't wish any of the hell from the Capitol on her. In the arena, Johanna apparently hit Katniss in the head to knock her unconscious and cut her tracker out. Finnick was supposed to cut mine out, but I went for Katniss as soon as the wire went slack. Finnick ended up being taken along with Katniss and Enobaria, and an unconscious Beetee, Johanna and myself were rescued. Beetee was nearly dead when they got him out and Johanna had taken Brutus's spear through her shoulder before I killed him in a vicious fight. That had left me with wounds of my own, but I've recovered well.

From the landing pad, Gale and I take the elevator down to my hospital room and drop my family pictures off, then head down to Compartment 307. Katniss's mother and Prim both look up as we enter, their eyes heavy with worry. I dump Buttercup into Prim's arms and the mood lightens a little as she grins. I hand her mother the game bag and the hunting jacket. She hangs both on the back of a chair then folds me into a light hug.

"Thank you, Peeta," she says.

We all watch Prim coddle Buttercup until Gale's communicuff begins to beep. It looks like an oversized watch, really, but receives print messages. Gale was granted one because of the important status he achieved by his rescue of the citizens of 12. "They need the two of us in Command," he says.

Gale and I say goodbyes and head to the high-tech meeting/war council room. The long table in the center of the room is empty when we get there and everyone is gathered around the screen that airs the Capitol broadcast. Plutarch catches sight of us and waves us forward. I exchange a look with Gale and cross the room, wondering what on earth it could be. It's usually war footage or propaganda or an ominous message from President Snow. Nothing I'm interested in. So it's a surprise to see Caesar Flickerman with his painted face and shining suit, preparing to give an interview. I watch him introduce the show, then he announces his guest.

Katniss Everdeen.

The camera pulls back and she is there. Real. Alive. I gasp, the oxygen disappearing from my lungs, and shove people aside until I am right in front of her. She's not bleeding or incoherent or dead. She is sitting right there.

I search her face, but find no sign of injury, no reflection of the agony of torture. Her skin is flawless, glowing in that full-body-polish way, and her eyes are still bright and fiery. She sits straight and strong, her shoulders squared and her chin up. Her hair is clean and shining in an intricate braid, and her makeup is light, hiding nothing. Her dress is simple and white, accented with reds, giving her a pure look. She is the image of beauty, of health, of composure. I can't reconcile this image with the tortured girl who haunts my dreams.

Caesar settles himself more comfortably in the chair across from Katniss and gives her a long look. "So… Katniss… It's good to see you again."

Katniss gives him a small smile. "It's good to be back, Caesar."

He sits forward, his eyes softening. "Not so good as you might have us think, though. I heard you've been in recovery. How are you?"

She hesitates. It's only slightly visible, but enough to let me know something is up. "I'm well. I still have a concussion, but the Capitol fixed me up," she says. Then she drops her eyes to the floor. "I also lost the baby."

Our fake baby. I wonder if she's been told to say she lost it or if the idea was her own. I wonder if this whole interview is scripted. Caesar makes a sympathetic noise and pats her hand. "I'm so sorry, Katniss. You look wonderful, though. As beautiful as ever. Tell me, does this dress burst into flames?"

Katniss smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. She seems to shrink from the strong woman that first appeared, something heavy and sad consuming her. "Not this time, Caesar."

Cinna. She must be thinking about him. I'd heard he was killed right before we were lifted into the arena. Katniss must know. I wonder how she's handling it. I've no idea what happened to my own team. Were Portia and my prep team killed?

"Well, that last interview was certainly emotional, and the loss in the Games was equally heartbreaking," Caesar says, reminding the nation of the bizarre events of the Quarter Quell. "I'm sure we would all like to know what exactly happened that last night in the arena. Do you think you could help us sort a few things out?"

Katniss laughs nervously, and her fingers unconsciously go to her temple. "I'm not sure I know what happened, myself."

"Do your best," Caesar says supportively, but there's something sinister about his expression.

"Well, I suppose you have to know what it felt like in that arena," Katniss begins. "It was hot and bright, and the sand made everything gritty. The jungle surrounded you, steaming and green and alive. The clock was ticking away as you waited for the next horror to come out of that jungle. There was the realization that… in the past two days, sixteen people have died. And the last seven would probably be dead by morning. You have the hope of that one survivor being you, and you make getting out your wish. But... to achieve it… you have to be prepared to kill. Getting your wish is costly."

"It costs your life," says Caesar.

"Actually, it costs more than that. Murdering innocent people?" says Katniss. "That costs everything you are."

" _Everything you are,_ " repeats Caesar quietly.

A hush has fallen over the room, and I can feel it spreading across Panem. A nation leaning in toward its screens. The Mockingjay herself is talking about what it's like in the arena. No one has ever explained what it really feels like.

Katniss continues. "That last night, my wish was to keep Peeta safe. But everything got so complicated. I just… I was so caught up in the plan that I let us get separated."

"When you took the coil down to the water with Johanna Mason and left Peeta at the tree," says Caesar.

"I didn't want to!" Katniss's composure breaks, and every ounce of the frustration and fear she's been holding back rushes into her words. "I couldn't argue with Beetee without raising suspicion. I had no idea what the others were planning, but I didn't want us both to get killed then and there! When Johanna hit me, I thought I was right about their motives. But it turns out something bigger was happening."

"The rebels' plan," Caesar clarifies. "But it looks suspicious, Katniss. As if you were part of it the whole time."

Katniss's eyes flash. "I had _no idea_ about any of it. I guessed what Beetee was trying to do with that wire."

"Did you? You seemed to know what you were doing."

Katniss is on her feet, leaning into Caesar's face, hands locked on the arms of her interviewer's chair. Her face is as cold as stone as she says, "Really? It was part of my plan to be knocked out by Johanna? For me to be paralyzed by lightning? To trigger the bombing? To be taken hostage by the Capitol?"

She blanches as she realizes what she's said. All of her fire diminishes and she sits back down, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. "I'm sorry, Caesar, I…" Her voice is just a whisper, and she shakes her head as she speaks.

"It's alright, Katniss," he says smoothly. "I understand you're worked up."

It's obvious it is not alright from the sheer terror in Katniss's eyes. The effects of her words could be enormous, and the Capitol won't take kindly to the impact.

Caesar plows forward, ready to move past it. "What about your mentor, Haymitch Abernathy? Do you think he could have been a part of the conspiracy?"

Katniss blinks, still recovering from her mistake. "He didn't seem interested."

"But you're not sure?"

"No."

There is silence on the set. Caesar makes a few more attempts at getting a good answer, but Katniss has checked out. Finally, he asks the question everyone has been pondering.

"I know you're upset, Katniss, but could you tell us your thoughts on the war?"

This is it. Her chance to redeem herself. To dismiss her previous comment and throw support behind the Capitol.

Will she? I don't know which would be worse: Her crushing the rebels' hope or bringing the Capitol's wrath down upon herself.

Katniss takes a deep breath and stares into the camera. Her expression becomes stony again, but I can see the cracks in it. Then, all at once, her fire returns.

"Honestly," she breathes. "My loyalty lies with the rebels."

The screen goes black almost as soon as she utters the words.

A/N: Even though there is a little more to the chapter after the interview in the book, I'm ending it here. Peeta doesn't make waves until his third interview in the book, but I don't think Katniss would lay down and roll over as easily. I'm not sure when the next update will be, but I'm aiming for one or two weeks. Thank you for reading! Shout out to the people that have favorited, followed, and reviewed, and the folks who have found this story on Facebook!


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

The room is silent as everyone digests what Katniss has just claimed.

 _My loyalty lies with the rebels._

Behind me, someone claps and the rebel officials erupt into shouts of praise and admiration. President Coin says that they can use the footage for one of their propaganda videos, and somewhere in my mind I agree. But right now I find myself staring blankly at the woman who is now reading a list of expected shortages in the Capitol. Everyone will be waiting for my reaction to the interview, but I know that there is no way I can speak right now.

I tear my eyes away and begin to push my way back through the crowd, my head feeling like it's underwater. I need to clear it. I need time to think. Plutarch approaches me, perhaps to talk about this recent development, but I shake my head and retreat faster. I pass Gale on my way out and see he's in the same state as I am. He follows me.

We stop in the stairwell and I sink down onto one of the steps. Gale leans against the wall and shakes his head in disbelief. "I don't know if I'm surprised or not. It was Katniss, after all. You and I both know how stubborn she is. We couldn't expect her to do anything else."

"Yeah," I agree. "No one would have believed it if she had supported the Capitol, anyway. She's a terrible actor, and she _hates_ them."

It's true. Like when President Snow asked her to convince everyone that our attempted double-suicide was out of desperation and not defiance. That didn't work at all.

"I can't believe they made her keep talking," Gale says. "It's like Snow wanted her to condemn herself. But I'm glad she did it, though. I'm proud of her."

I try to sift through my feelings on the whole ordeal in the silence that follows. She helped the rebels, but I'm afraid she just put a nail in her own coffin. Snow won't let it slide, I know, but I get the eerie feeling that he won't have her executed either. That would turn her into a martyr for sure.

"What do you think they'll do?" I ask.

Gale's jaw tightens and his eyes fill with a storm of pain. "They'll probably try to coerce her into refuting what she said and speaking for them."

"And if she does?"

"I don't know," he says. "I just hope she doesn't."

I think for a moment. Katniss is being subjected to who-knows-what in the Capitol because she refused to play by their rules. She always has. And I'm sitting here being too stubborn to do anything useful. She has never really needed me for help in defying them, but this time I think I'll help. I'll support her.

"I'm going to speak," I blurt. "I'm going to do something. For Katniss's sake."

Back in my hospital room that night, I find Johanna has thrown herself into the reclining chair sitting in the corner. She grins at me as I walk through the door. "Good news" she says. "My shoulder has officially healed. They still won't let me out of here, but it's a step closer."

"What are you doing here, Johanna?" I ask, barely concealing the exasperation in my voice.

She sits up and stretches her arms. "I thought I'd see how your trip to 12 was. You weren't here so I took a nap."

"Your room is right next door."

"I wanted to wait." Johanna shrugs. "Plus, my doctor said I should talk to somebody today. You're actually the only person here that I can tolerate, you know."

I sink down onto the side of my bed and drag a hand down my face. "Well, I was in Command. Katniss had an interview."

She raises her eyebrows. "How was it?"

"She looked okay," I start. I tell her about the interview. How Katniss snapped at Caesar, how she said her loyalty was with the rebels. How afraid I am thinking about what they're doing to her right now. How I don't know if Snow will persuade her to speak.

"What are you going to do?" she asks when I finish.

I take a deep breath. "I'm going to help the rebels. It's the only thing I can think to do that will help her."

Johanna looks at me. "What if Snow does get her to speak? Wouldn't that just mess up the whole rebellion?"

"I don't know. It probably won't do much if she does, but I don't imagine it will be too great for the rebels if they see she's given up. That's why I have to be their voice. Maybe it will keep the districts' morale up."

"Sounds good," she says, getting to her feet. "I might just help, too. Why not, right? I hate the Capitol as much as anyone."

I nod as she heads for the door.

"Goodnight, Peeta."

"Goodnight," I whisper. But I doubt it will be.

In the morning, after a nightmare-plagued sleep, Johanna wakes me up and we go down to breakfast. She tells me she's going to help as we down the tasteless meal of oats and mashed turnips. We meet Gale in the hallway on the way to Command and the three of us walk down together.

By the time we get to Command, Coin, Plutarch, and all their people have already assembled. The sight of Johanna raises some eyebrows, but they ignore her after she gives them a sarcastic wave. I take a seat at the long table and explain my reasons for helping them. Several looks are exchanged at my newfound interest in the proceedings, but no one argues that they can't use me. Plutarch is enthusiastic about my decision, and says they can find a role for Johanna as well. It all goes smoothly. Until I tell them what I want them to do in exchange.

"You have to rescue her as soon as you get the chance."

President Coin's slush gray eyes bore into mine, weighing the risks. Finally, she says, "Alright. Since it is your only term, I'll see what I can do. Until then, I expect you to perform."

"Fair enough," I say.

Her eyes flicker to the clock, to the words printed on her arm. Even the president has a schedule to adhere to. "I'll leave them in your hands, then, Plutarch." She exits the room, followed by her team.

"Excellent. Excellent." Plutarch sinks down, elbows on the table, rubbing his eyes. "You know what I miss? More than anything? Coffee. I ask you, would it be so unthinkable to have something to wash down the gruel and turnips?"

Plutarch's calculating assistant, a woman named Fulvia Cardew, pipes up as she massages Plutarch's shoulders. "We didn't think it would be quite so rigid here," she says. "Not in the higher ranks."

Beside me, Johanna snorts. I get why. Both of them are from the Capitol, and are used to the luxuries they have there. Fulvia, who has silver flowers inlaid in her cheeks, is the very portrait of a Capitol citizen, and Plutarch was a Gamemaker for years. They've never had to go a day without in their lives.

Plutarch sighs. "Oh, well, wars don't last forever. So, glad to have you two on the team." He reaches a hand out to the side, where Fulvia is already extending a large sketchbook bound in black leather. "You know in general what we're asking of you, Peeta. But before we get into that, I'd like to show you these."

Plutarch slides the sketchbook across to me. I run my fingers across the leather, then open the cover to find a picture of Katniss, standing straight and strong, in a black uniform. The drawing is elegant and the way the outfit is designed seems familiar. The swoop of the helmet, the curve to the breastplate, the slight fullness of the sleeves that allows the white folds under the arms to show. Only one person could have designed this for Katniss.

"Cinna," I say.

"Yes. He made these shortly before the Games, sometime after the Quarter Quell announcement. There is a uniform for you, as well. Portia had a hand in designing it. Go on. Flip through."

I turn the pages slowly, seeing each detail of Katniss's uniform, until I reach my own. It's very similar to Katniss's. The only difference is the way it's been adjusted to suit me. And instead of the white folds beneath the arms that suggest wings, patches of white run the length of my sleeves. The carefully tailored layers of body armor, the hidden weapons in the belt and boots, the special reinforcements over the heart. All are the same as Katniss's. On the final page, we stand together, a sketch of the Mockingjay pin above us.

I think of the pin in my pocket, washed clean of the blood, in its place beside the pearl. It reminds me of the reason I'm doing this.

"There are not only the sketches. We have your uniforms," Plutarch says. "Oh, and Beetee's got something down in the armory for you."

I look at him. "Beetee? Is he okay?"

Plutarch waves off my concern. "He's fine. Recovered well. Been helping out in Special Weaponry since he could sit up properly."

"That's good," I say. "So, when do I get the uniform? When do I start?"

"Plutarch and I have been talking about how to pull this off," Fulvia says. "We have speeches written up, but we need to find you a look. You need to be something. A scarred and bloody revolutionary? A driven, desperate soldier? A grieving husband who wants revenge?"

The last one takes me aback until I remember that the whole country thinks Katniss and I are married. "Why can't I just speak?"

"You will," she says, shooting me a condescending look. "But the rebels won't be affected the same if you don't have some sort of persona."

"Sounds like this is the Capitol now," Johanna deadpans. "Costumes, personalities, written speeches. What's next? Going to sick mutts on us? I've had my fill of that."

Fulvia turns scarlet and says haughtily, "No. I just think the people will react better if we have some sort of approach to these propaganda spots."

"She does have a point, Fulvia," Gale says. "Maybe you should just leave Peeta alone."

Plutarch holds up a hand to quiet everyone. "We'll try both. See which works better. Anyway, our plan is to launch an Airtime Assault. To make a series of what we call propos- which is short for 'propaganda spots'-featuring you, and broadcast them to the entire population of Panem."

"How? The Capitol has sole control of the broadcasts," says Gale.

"But we have Beetee," Plutarch replies. "About ten years ago, he essentially redesigned the underground network that transmits all the programming. He thinks there's a reasonable chance it can be done. Of course, we'll need something to air. So, Peeta, we'll get you down to Special Weaponry and get you your weapon. Then, we'll do makeup and try shooting the first propo."

"Actually, we have one more thing. This was originally going to be a surprise for Katniss, but I suppose they will be of use with you. Come, come." Fulvia gives us a wave, and we all follow her and Plutarch.

I clutch the sketchbook tightly. Even though she's never seen it, it feels like a piece of Katniss. I allow myself to feel hopeful that my efforts will help. The sooner we win this war; the sooner we can help Katniss.

We board an elevator, and Plutarch checks his notes. "Let's see. It's Compartment Three-Nine-Oh-Eight." He presses a button marked 39, but nothing happens.

"You must have to key it," says Fulvia.

Plutarch pulls a key attached to a thin chain from under his shirt and inserts it into a slot I hadn't noticed before. The doors slide shut. "Ah, there we are."

The elevator descends ten, twenty, thirty-plus levels, farther down than I even knew District 13 went. It opens on a wide white corridor lined with red doors, which look almost decorative compared to the gray ones on the upper floors. Each is plainly marked with a number. _3901, 3902, 3903…_

As we step out, I glance behind me to watch the elevator close and see a metallic grate slide down into place over the regular doors. An uneasy feeling settles in my stomach. When I turn, a guard has materialized from one of the rooms at the far end of the corridor. A door swings silently shut behind him as he strides toward us.

Plutarch moves to greet him, and the rest of us follow behind him. Something feels very wrong down here. It's more than the reinforced elevator, or the claustrophobia of being so far underground, or the caustic smell of antiseptic. It's something much more sinister.

"Good morning, we were just looking for Compartment Three-Nine-Oh-Eight," Plutarch begins.

"You have the wrong floor," the guard says. "I'm afraid I have to ask you to leave."

It's right ahead of us. Compartment 3908. Just a few steps away. The door seems incomplete. In fact, all of the doors in this corridor do. No knobs. They must swing free on hinges like the one the guard appeared through.

The guard extends his arms to corral us back to the elevator. From behind door 3908 comes a sound. Just a tiny whimper. Like something a cowed dog might make to avoid being struck, only all too human and familiar. I exchange a glance with Gale, then dart beneath the guard's raised arm.

My artificial leg slows me down enough for the guard to catch my arm. He starts to pull me back, but Gale shoves his way between us. Johanna catches the guard's wrist to hold him in place. That's my chance. I reach the door marked _3908_ and push through it. Then, I find them. Half-naked, bruised, and shackled to the wall.

Katniss's prep team.

A/N: There you have it. A lot of this chapter was taken directly from the book, and it was relatively difficult to figure out which way I wanted to take this story. I decided to keep it close to the book and keep Katniss's prep team in it. More to come in one or two weeks! It may take longer because I want this to be a really neat and comprehensible story. But I'm going to push through to the end. Thanks for reading! Review!


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

The three figures are only just recognizable by their most striking fashion choices: Venia's gold facial tattoos. Flavius's orange corkscrew curls. Octavia's light evergreen skin. I just barely remember their names, but I know who they are. On seeing me, Flavius and Octavia shrink back against the tiled walls like they're anticipating an attack. I've never hurt them, and I know Katniss hasn't either. So why do they recoil?

The guard's booming voice orders me out, and I feel his hand grip my shoulder. I shake it off and cross to the three. I crouch down, and speak with all the tenderness I can muster. "What happened? Why are you here?"

Venia lifts her head, and I take her icy hands, which clutch mine like vises. "They took us. From the Capitol," she says hoarsely.

"Who took you?"

"People," she says vaguely. "The night Katniss destroyed the arena."

"We thought it would be comforting for Katniss to have her regular team," Plutarch says behind me. "We couldn't get yours or we would have."

I whip around, fury building inside me. "Why are they being treated like this?"

"I honestly don't know." There's something in his voice that makes me believe him, and the pallor on Fulvia's face confirms it. Plutarch turns to the guard. "I was only told they were being confined. Why are they being punished?"

"For stealing food. We had to restrain them after an altercation over some bread," says the guard. "There were repeated infractions. They were warned. Still they took more bread. You can't take bread."

I think of my own home. How we were allowed only the stale loaves and pastries, and whatever fell into the fire. Keeping the bread for ourselves was punishable by a whipping. My mother's hand was never hesitant to strike me if I tried to slip a roll from the pan. She didn't want me to be lashed. If 13 dispenses this punishment for stealing bread, they're just as brutal as the Capitol.

"This seems extreme," Plutarch says.

I turn back to the team. Venia's brows come together as if she's trying to make sense of it. "We were just so hungry. No one would tell us anything. We didn't know."

"It's okay, Venia. I'm going to get you out of here." I address the guard. "Unchain them."

The guard shakes his head. "It's not authorized."

"Unchain them! Now!" I yell.

Johanna shoves the guard in the chest, despite him being at least a head taller and probably a hundred pounds heavier. "Go on."

The guard shakes his head, resting his hand on the gun in his holster like he might start shooting. His composure has broken. Average citizens don't address him this way. "I have no release orders. And neither of you have the authority to — "

"Do it on my authority," says Plutarch. "We came to collect these three anyway. I'll take full responsibility."

The guard leaves to make a call. He returns with a set of keys. The preps have been forced into cramped body positions for so long that even once the shackles are removed, they have trouble walking. Gale, Plutarch, and I help them.

In the hospital, I find Katniss's mother, the only one I know and trust to take care of them. She immediately puts on a look of concentration, and no one interferes when she guides the trio into an examination room to assess their injuries. I plant myself on a bench in the hall outside the hospital entrance. I'll wait to hear Mrs. Everdeen's verdict and make sure they're okay. Katniss would want me to take care of them.

Gale and Johanna join me on the bench. Plutarch and Fulvia take the bench across from us.

Johanna leans back casually and crosses her ankles. "This place reminds me of the Capitol more and more. Are you sure Coin is any better than Snow?"

Fulvia and Plutarch look at her, alarmed.

"There is no comparison between a man who allows children to be killed, and the head of this rebellion," Fulvia says icily.

"If you say so," says Johanna. "But I'm thinking Coin is just another power player. We're all disposable, aren't we? All of us could end up in one of those cells if it means she gets what she wants. Better be careful."

Johanna winks at them, and I'm not sure whether to laugh or seriously consider what she's just said.

An awkward silence falls over us. Is Coin just another player in the game? Another coolly logical strategist planning on how to use us the best way? I think back to the meeting I walked out of. She was talking about Katniss like she was a pawn. Are we all just pieces in a game between Coin and Snow?

The arrival of Katniss's mother sends us all to our feet.

"How are they?" I ask.

"They be alright," she reports. "No permanent physical injuries."

"Good. Splendid," says Plutarch. "How soon can they be put to work?"

"Probably tomorrow," she answers. "You'll have to expect some emotional instability after what they've been through. They were particularly ill prepared, coming from their life in the Capitol."

"Weren't we all?" Plutarch says.

Since the prep team is incapacitated, Plutarch releases us. Gale disappears to Nuclear History after looking at the schedule on his arm, and Johanna and I ignore ours and head to lunch. The thick slice of bread we're served with our stew sticks in my throat after hearing Venia's story. I finish it anyway, because wasting food is not acceptable here in 13.

After we drop off our trays, Johanna and I go back to our hospital rooms. I sit cross-legged on the bed and take my pad of paper and pencil from beneath my pillow. I start to sketch Katniss during her interview yesterday, documenting her strong stature, her elaborate braid and simple dress. I take my time, proportioning and shading and erasing until she comes to life. I manage to capture her beauty in the drawing, and smile to myself. I'm going to get her back. I'm going to see her lovely gray eyes and small, reluctant smile again.

When the half-hour of downtime before dinner rolls around, there's a knock on my ajar door, and Prim steps inside. "Peeta?"

"Hey, Prim," I say. I wipe my graphite-stained hands on my pants and set the pad aside. "What's up?"

"They let us keep Buttercup. We're moved to Compartment E now," she says. "It's on the top floor. It has a window so he can go outside."

I smile. "That's great."

"Thank you for finding him."

"No problem," I say. "So, how are you doing?"

Prim's face falls, something I've seen only a few times. My own grin fades. "We saw Katniss," she says. "I'm worried about her."

I pat the space beside me and she comes to sit on the edge of the bed. "I am, too. I was drawing her."

I show her the sketch, and she smiles a little. "It's beautiful, Peeta."

Right now, Prim resembles her big sister. With her head slightly cocked in thought and the unconscious smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, she reminds me of those days I spent working on the plant book with Katniss. Her eyes, though blue instead of gray, are alight with the same passion and stubbornness. But it's subtler compared to Katniss's vibrant, headstrong fire. Prim's face is softer as well, less hardened by pain and loss and hunger. I think about how Prim has lost her sister, and it makes the constant ache in my chest grow.

Prim frowns. "I know why she helped the rebels, but I'm afraid of what's going to happen to her."

So Prim has reached the same conclusion I have: That they're going to hurt Katniss for what she's said. I have no idea how to respond, but I whisper, "I know."

She looks at me, her blue eyes shining with tears. "She'll be okay, though. She's strong. And she'd want us to be strong for her."

I wrap an arm around Katniss's little sister. Prim is too sweet and wise to be burdened with this. It's not her fault. It's the Capitol's. It's always the Capitol's.

"We'll get her back, Prim," I reassure her, even though I'm unsure if we will.

A/N: This chapter is a bit short, but I'll try to make chapter 4 extra-long. Next update will probably be in around two weeks because of school and other stuff I'm busy with, but I'll get the rest of this story up even if my head explodes… (That might make things difficult, though.) Anyway, thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

I look at my reflection in the mirror, wondering if I can ever go back to how I used to be. My face is harder, like I've aged five years in only one, and I'm starting to develop stubble on my jaw. From these past couple of weeks, I've already got dark circles under my eyes from sleepless nights and my skin is a wan, sickly color. My muscles are more defined from the training we did after the Quell announcement, but my shoulders seem a bit too hunched, like I'm about to collapse. I'd hoped that I would be able to walk out of the Games unchanged, or die as myself, but now I know that it's impossible. The Games really do change you, regardless of who you are.

For a moment I close my eyes and think about the past: The terrible, painful moments the Games created and the wonderful, blissful moments with Katniss. I think about the little baker's son I used to be, how my brothers and I would throw handfuls of flour at each other and how I would draw all sorts of things with chalk on the paving stones in the Square with Delly, my best childhood friend. I think of being a tribute, scared, nearly dying from blood poisoning, lying and being lied to and turning into something I never thought I'd have to be. I think of being a Victor, waking up paralyzed with terror or running to calm the girl down the hall of her nightmares, and I think of my drawings, gone from pigs and cats and things to blood-soaked scenes and snarling mutts. How have I changed so much in such little time?

The prep team appears, looking washed out, and the next hour of my morning is spent being remade. I bathe, and then they trim my hair and shave my face. Erase the dark circles and scars. Bring some life back into my being. Through it all, they're silent, wincing as their bodies protest when they make a wrong move, fingers occasionally trembling. I attempt at making light conversation, avoiding tricky topics and keeping my voice reassuring and calm, but inside I'm still awash in darkness. It helps them a little bit to listen to me, I think, and I find even I'm soothed by the inane chatter.

I get dressed so I can head to lunch, but find the prep team still huddled together by the door. "Are they bringing your food here?" I ask.

"No," says Venia. "We're supposed to go to a dining hall."

Even though I know what reaction the sight of the preps will bring, I offer to lead them to the cafeteria. They trail behind me like lost puppies, nervous and wide-eyed, until we reach the big, people-packed room. The team whimpers a little as the hall bursts into a flurry of excitement. Gaping mouths, finger pointing, exclamations. All of it hits like a tidal wave. I turn to the preps and give them a little nod of encouragement, a smile. As they follow me through the line, accepting bowls of grayish fish and okra stew and cups of water, I think how lucky I am to normally only evoke pitying whispers.

We take seats at a table that consists of familiar faces. People from 12, like Delly, who gives me the brightest smile she has as I sit. She gives a sunny hello to the preps, which relaxes them a bit, and Prim scoots down the bench to greet them as well. She points down the table to where Mrs. Everdeen, Gale and his family sit. They give uncomfortable but warm smiles, and Gale's mother, Hazelle, who must know about the preps' imprisonment, holds up a spoonful of the stew. "Don't worry," she says. "Tastes better than it looks."

A girl from the Seam, Leevy, who introduced herself as Katniss's neighbor and who I recognize from the night Gale was whipped, gives a cautious greeting to them, and sends a friendly grin my way. But Gale's five-year-old sister, Posy, makes the biggest difference. She scoots along the bench and reaches across Prim to touch Octavia's skin with a tentative finger. "You're green. Are you sick?"

"It's a fashion thing, Posy," I say.

Prim looks down at the younger girl. "Like wearing lipstick or ribbons."

"It's meant to be pretty," whispers Octavia, and I can see tears threatening to spill over her lashes.

Posy considers this and says matter-of-factly, "I think you'd be pretty in any color."

The tiniest of smiles forms on Octavia's lips. "Thank you."

"If you really want to impress Posy, you'll have to dye yourself bright pink," says Gale from a few seats away. "That's her favorite color." Posy giggles and slides back down to her mother. Gale gives me a nod.

Everyone gets down to eating. The stew doesn't taste that bad, but there's a certain sliminess that's hard to get around. My mood has improved tenfold since earlier, but something about the texture of the food reminds me of all the gloom. It's slimy, like those oysters in the arena. And thinking about the arena makes me think about her, and the last time I saw her, and what I discovered about her when I woke up in the hovercraft.

" _Don't worry,"_ she had said. _"I'll see you at midnight."_

One last kiss before everything went insane.

I reach into my pocket and run my thumb across the pearl. It calms me a little.

After lunch, Gale and I find we're both scheduled to go down to Special Defense. Johanna finds us in the hallway and brandishes the purple ink on her arm. _Special Defense,_ it reads. I ask where she was at lunch but she only shrugs and says something like 'shoulder', to which I wonder if she's okay. "I'm fine, Mellark," she replies. "I just had to rotate my arm for half an hour because I, you know, got skewered."

We ride the elevator down in silence, Gale shifting uncomfortably in response to Johanna's flirtatious winks, me stifling a laugh the whole time. The entire ride I'm thinking of Johanna's 'display' after the Opening Ceremonies, and Katniss's reaction. The memory of the whole ordeal lightens the heaviness in my chest. When the elevator doors open, the memories are pushed to the back as my mind takes in the flurry of activity. The Special Defense level is situated almost as far down as the dungeons where we found the prep team, but is infinitely busier. It's a beehive of rooms full of computers, labs, research equipment, and testing ranges.

When we ask for Beetee, we're directed through the maze until we reach an enormous plate-glass window. Inside is something beautiful and completely out of place in 13: a replication of a meadow, filled with trees and flowering plants, and alive with hummingbirds. The view makes my fingers itch to grab a brush and capture it, and I make a note to draw it as soon as I get back to my room. We find Beetee sitting motionless in a wheelchair at the center of the meadow, watching a spring-green bird hover in midair as it sips nectar from a large orange blossom. His eyes follow the bird as it darts away, and he catches sight of us. He gives a friendly wave for us to join him inside.

The air is cool and breathable, not at all what I'd expected. From all sides come the whir of tiny wings, like insects, and the little birds zip around, nearly invisible. The place is really stunning, and I wonder what allowed such a pleasing environment to be built here.

Beetee still has the pallor of someone recovering, but behind those ill-fitting glasses, his eyes are alight with excitement. "Aren't they magnificent? Thirteen has been studying their aerodynamics here for years. Forward and backward flight and speeds up to sixty miles per hour!"

Beside me, Johanna whistles. "Fascinating."

Beetee scrutinizes her over his glasses. "It is, isn't it? But I assume that was sarcasm."

"Yeah," she replies.

His eyes shift to Gale. "You've hunted with Katniss, yes? Could either of you bring a hummingbird down with an arrow?"

"Not much meat on them," answers Gale. "We've never had reason to try."

"No. And you two aren't ones to kill for sport," says Beetee. "I bet they'd be difficult to shoot, though."

Gale's quiet a moment, his face taking on a distant look. "I bet you could snare them," he finally says. "Take a net with a very fine mesh. Enclose an area and leave a mouth of a couple square feet. Bait the inside with nectar flowers. While they're feeding, snap the mouth shut. They'd fly away from the noise but only encounter the far side of the net."

"Would that work?" asks Beetee.

"I don't know. Just an idea," says Gale. "They might outsmart it."

"They might. But you're playing on their natural instincts to flee danger. Thinking like your prey… that's where you find their vulnerabilities," says Beetee.

I've never really thought about what goes into hunting, but I suppose that makes sense. I remember Beetee's plan in the Quell, and also the way he won his Games. He'd connected two wires and electrocuted a pack of kids who were hunting him. Beetee, in the moments that led up to his victory in those long-ago Hunger Games, watched the others die. Not his fault. Only self-defense. We all acted in self-defense. The thought makes me shudder.

"Beetee, Plutarch said you had something for me."

"Right. I do. Your new weapon. It was certainly a fun project." He presses a hand control on the arm of the chair and wheels out of the room. As we follow him through Special Defense, he explains about the chair. "I can walk a little now. It's just that I tire so quickly. It's easier for me to get around this way. So, how are you three?"

"I think we're as well as can be expected," I answer. The others nod in agreement.

"I suppose so." Beetee's eyes seemingly recognize our collective exhaustion and he smiles grimly. "It is awful when you can't protect people you care about. We've all certainly been through enough. Which is why I thought a distraction might help." He doesn't elaborate on this 'distraction', so I assume it's a surprise.

The entrance to a hall marked SPECIAL WEAPONRY is heavily loaded with security measures. We have to go through many fingerprint, retinal, and DNA scans, and go through special metal detectors. After a second round of identification checks at the door to the armory, we are finally allowed to enter the weapons collection. The arsenal takes my breath away, and Gale and Johanna seem almost giddy as we peruse the rows and rows of firearms, launchers, explosives, armored vehicles, and things I can't even begin to guess about. "Of course, the Airborne Division is housed separately," Beetee tells us.

We come upon a target range and Beetee announces he'll be right back. Ignoring Johanna's promise that we'll probably not blow anything up while he's gone, Beetee presses a code into a panel and a small doorway opens. I watch until he's disappeared and the door's shut.

Johanna lets out an actual appreciative whistle. "I could live in here."

Meanwhile, Gale has wondered over to a wall of deadly-looking archery weapons. I've seen Katniss use plenty of the Capitol's fancy bows in training, but nothing designed for military combat. These are heavy, automatic things loaded down with scopes and gadgetry. I could hardly shoot a simple bow, let alone fire one of these. With my luck, I'd lose a finger trying to load one. Hand to hand is more my speed. I hope Beetee considered that when designing this weapon.

I leave Johanna examining a row of missiles—hopefully she doesn't _actually_ blow anything up—and go to ask Gale if he's learned to fire one of those bows.

"If only Katniss could see these." He doesn't turn around as I approach, but I assume he's talking to me and not himself. I stand beside him and gaze up the wall at the bows. "If I'd had a weapon like this that could've kept her out of the arena in the first place…if I'd had a weapon that could have stopped what I saw happen in Twelve…I'd have used it."

"Me, too," I agree. I'm not sure what to tell him about the aftermath of killing a person.

He turns to me, that intense expression on his face. "You did protect her, though. I couldn't do anything like that. I didn't even know what to do when she'd have flashbacks while we were hunting. She clung onto you like a lifeline. And the way she kissed you in the Quarter Quell…she never kissed me like that." There's a long pause. "I should've taken your place in the first Games. Protected her then."

"You couldn't have," I tell him. "She would never have forgiven you. You had to protect her family. They matter more to her than her life."

"I guess you're right—"

Suddenly, Johanna has her arms slung around both of our shoulders. "Serious conversation over here, huh? Look, Katniss is probably pretty focused on trying to not die right now. Neither of you can do much about it. I can't help the fact that Finnick knew about as many rebel secrets as I did. And I say, for the sake of getting them back, we focus on the propos." Despite the casual demeanor, her expression is anything but calm and reasonable, and her tone holds all the positivity of a silent canary in a coal mine.

Fortunately, Beetee returns. He wheels over to us with two black rectangular cases resting precariously across the armrests of the chair. He comes to a halt in front of us and hands the top case to me. "For you."

I set the case flat on the floor and undo the latches along one side. The top opens on silent hinges, revealing a sleek automatic rifle. I note the long blade attachment and another extra contraption on the barrel, and the cushioned grip. "Wow." This is certainly not what I was expecting. I lift it out of the case and onto my shoulder—it actually isn't as heavy as I initially thought it would be. My finger runs along the flat of the blade.

"I know melee is more your strong suit, but you may need something more than a glorified knife sometime. They wanted something simple for your costume, you see. Some fancy blade like you had in the arena. But a rifle is much more useful. I only added the bayonet to please Plutarch." Beetee taps the little nozzle and the line of canisters on top of the barrel. "This is my favorite feature, though. It works as a flamethrower of sorts. Just flick the switch by your thumb and you can set fire to anything up to 30 yards away." He grins at me.

The next case he gives to Johanna. The axe inside is just as impressive as my rifle. It has dual blades that gleam black and a line of blinking red lights down the handle. There's also a cuff for Johanna to wear, and Beetee explains she can call the axe back to her hand after she throws it. When Gale notes she could lose a finger if something malfunctioned, she just shrugs. "I've seen plenty of people lose fingers. Not that big of a deal, really."

Beetee gestures to the wall of bows. "Gale, maybe you'd like to try out a few of these," he says.

"Seriously?" Gale asks.

"You'll be issued a gun eventually for battle, of course. But if you appear in propos, one of these would look a little showier. I thought you might like to find one that suits you," says Beetee.

"Yeah, I would." Gale's hands close around a lethal-looking bow. He hefts it onto his shoulder and points it around the room, peering through the scope.

"You three could try those out if you'd like."

We follow Beetee back to the range to try out our new weapons. Among the thuds of blades and arrows sinking into targets, and the volley of gunshots from my rifle—as I figured, I'm an average shot—Beetee tells us he's made weapons for Katniss and Finnick as well. "Plutarch informed me of your one term, Peeta. So I figured if they're rescued, they might need a weapon of their own eventually." I roast another dummy Peacekeeper as he tells us Finnick's trident works the same as Johanna's axe. The bow, he tells us, can only be fired by Katniss herself and has a variety of arrows from razor sharp to incendiary to explosive. Johanna remarks that we'll be the coolest team of rebels in the field with our shiny new toys.

We're in good spirits by the time we leave. Gale and Johanna both go their own ways, and I wander back to the prep team. I sit patiently as they fuss over my hair and touch up any blemishes on my skin. I don my costume and take up my rifle loaded with blanks and fitted with something Plutarch tells me is a blank adapter. Of course, they wouldn't let me wave a loaded gun around a soundstage. When I'm finally placed in my on-stage position, they adjust makeup and lighting and smoke levels. Someone slaps a bloody bandage over my upper arm to indicate I've been in recent combat. At the last minute I remember the mockingjay pin and Venia affixes it over my heart. Finally, there's quiet on the set. For a full five minutes I am simply considered. Then Plutarch says, "I think that does it."

I'm beckoned over to the monitor. They play back the last few minutes of taping and I watch myself evolve into a rebel. My body seems larger than usual, more broad-shouldered and imposing than I actually am. My face is smudged and bruised attractively. My hair is swept back and darkened with artificial smoke. Wisps of smoke rise from my clothes. The person on camera looks almost nothing like me.

Everyone is very excited, very pleased with their work. It's nearly time to break for dinner, but they insist we continue. Tomorrow we'll focus on speeches and interviews and personas. Today they want just a single slogan, one line they can work into a short propo to show to Coin.

"People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice!" That's the line. It seems like a mouthful to say if I'm supposed to be in the middle of battle, and I can't imagine ever coming up with it on my own. They must have worked on it for months, maybe years, and are really proud of it. I'm about to suggest something else, but Fulvia's right in my face, describing the scene, and how my comrades-in-arms are all lying dead around me. She insists that I must look upset, angry that the Capitol has struck down everyone close to me. She even goes so far as to tell me to imagine Katniss in the Capitol, which sends actual rage coursing through my blood. At Snow for taking her, at Fulvia for mentioning it, at myself for not having Katniss beside me.

I shake Fulvia off and hustle back to my place. The smoke machine kicks in. Someone calls for quiet, the camera starts rolling, and I hear "Action!" My breath becomes labored, my vision hazy with red, and I yell from the hollow of pain in my chest, " _People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice!_ "

There's stunned silence on the set, Plutarch grinning at me like a child in a sweet shop.

Finally, a slow clap begins and Haymitch appears from the shadow by the door. Seeing him almost makes me want to charge off the stage and strangle him, but he doesn't react to my fury. His sallow face just twists with a smirk. "Nice job, boy. And here I was thinking we'd never get her back."

A/N: Well… sorry it's been nearly eighty years since I've updated. Over the summer I was getting my mind straight and had no idea what to write. What I did get written turned out looking like actual garbage. Then, we moved and I decided to homeschool and, basically, a lot of changes have happened over the past few months. But gradually I got more words flowing in ma brain and I've been working on this chapter for a few weeks now. The new place has given me a big happiness boost and I'm not distracted by my neighbors arguing loudly over a hairbrush, so I'm writing more and more. It's all good. I'm good. And I'll hopefully get back into my normal writing rhythm, though I highly doubt these updates will be regular. I'll probably write the rest of the story and then post it or something. Who the heck knows? Thanks for reading, anyway!

P.S. If you're having a bad day, go listen to "Legendary" by Welshly Arms. Gives me goosebumps every time I listen to it. Also makes me wanna do a backflip off a skyscraper and land on a dragon that flies me into the sunset. Enjoy it.

Oh, yeah. Here's a disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games and am making no profit off of this story.


	6. INFO

A/N: Okay, so sorry this isn't an update, but I felt I needed to express this. This is going up on all of my stories.

Due to my relentless perfectionism and continuing procrastination, time between my updates can span to the length of months. And I'd like to apologize for that.

I'm a seat-of-my-pants kind of writer and that can cause problems, but I've also tried outlines, which only seem to drain the enthusiasm I have for a project. My ongoing theory is that if I set myself a deadline to update and maybe plan loosely how a story will go, things will be better patience-wise for you as the reader and guilt-wise for me as a writer.

Not all stories will be handled the same, so here is a list of how I'm going to go about each update:

 **(You can skim and read the bold text, if you'd like)**

 **The Voice of the Rebellion:** This story has died, unfortunately. It was basically a trial run. I still like the idea though, so **I** _ **may**_ **rewrite it and re-post it, but that may take months**. Otherwise, I'm putting it on an **indefinite hiatus**. I apologize, as I know there were some people who enjoyed the story.

 **Red:** I love this story so much and _**will**_ **be continuing** it **.** I've written an entire outline, so I just have to get down to the nitty gritty and write it out. I definitely will not make the mistake of posting before all chapters are finished again. This may take **a month or two** because it's a 27 chapter beast.

 **Pretty Little Prompts:** Honestly, this is a glorified archive of random one-shots and will continue to have **sporadic updates.** Unless I get a request, then you can expect an update on **Fridays or Saturdays.**

 **Four Eyes and the Freak:** Another unplanned story, but amazingly, my most popular. I may do **as few as two more chapters or as many as ten.** It all depends where the story decides to go. I will happily consider any ideas anyone has, so PM me or leave a comment if you have anything. :) Again, I'm going to update this one on **Fridays or Saturdays**.

Also, to zak194: That one-shot is coming soon! I'm trying to get my ass in gear lol

I have a couple new projects I'm working on as well! I'll write everything out before I post it, though.

 **Thanks for bearing with me!**


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